Why are the Roses Red?
by Tanuki Bot
Summary: "Roses are one of the most beautiful, not to mention recognized, in the whole floral world. But why is red the color that comes to mind when we think of a rose? Why not any of the other beautiful colors it comes in?"


**Bot: Hi hi~ How's it going? Good I hope~  
Now I know, I know, I should be writing for 'Wait, He's a She?'**  
**But I got this random inspiration for this little ficlet.**  
**And I'm at home sick today, so don't bee to angry with me ;-;**  
**I'll try to get on with 'Wait, He's a She?' as soon as I can But for now, enjoy~  
Disclaimer: If only if only (The woodpecker sighs) I owned this anime~**

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Roses are one of the most beautiful, not to mention recognized, in the whole floral world. Extravagant curves made of glorious colors perched on a thorned green staff, extended for all the world to see. Said colors vary immensely; calming blue, cheerful yellow, bright orange, purple, pink, you name it. But those aren't the colors we think of first, are they? No, no there is one color that always comes to mind. And we all know which one that is, don't we?

That's right; red. A color that can mean love, rage, courage, and many more emotions. But why is red the color that comes to mind when we think of a rose? Why not any of the other beautiful colors it comes in? My thought is that originally they were white. Yet, due to the purity and unyielding love that a nation had while giving them to another changed all of them to the bright red we know and recognize. Allow me to tell you the tale of the color of the rose and maybe you will understand a bit better.

The dull sound of shoes on dirt echoed through the forest as Francis Bonnefoy, otherwise known as the Country of France, strolled to his colony's home. Said home was a small cabin in the woods of Ottowa, Ontario. All of the woodlands were refreshing compared to the cites that he was used to being in, and he couldn't help but smile at the natural beauty. The trees; tall with flourishing leaves, hosting communities of life within and around them. Bird song fluttered down from the leaves as chipmunks and squirrels fought and played through the trees and along the ground.

As the previously mentioned cabin came into view, his smile slid into a deep frown at the thought of why he was here. No, it wasn't like his normal visits, filled with the two laughing, playing the yard with that peculiar bear, and tucking young Canada in after the boy had fallen asleep. Currently is was 1763, and he was given the job of telling his Matthieu that he was going to be living with England, whether or not he wanted to. He felt a lump form in his through from the thought of Matthieu's eyes welling up with unshed tears in his attempt to seem strong; it tore his heart to shreds. Wanting, no, needing to get his mind of the topic for now, he swallowed and turned his head to look at more of the flora of the land.

In doing so, a bush caught his eye, and he paused in his gait to crouch next to it. A rose bush. The stark white blooms stood out from the dark green of the leaves as he gazed fondly at them. '_Mon Matthieu would enjoy one of these, if I could just..._' his arm extended, as if to grab one of them. Realizing what he was doing, he snapped his hand back to his side. Of course he knew of the thorns that lie just below the beautiful flowers. '_And of course I haven't the mind to bring cloves on this trip_,' he though grumpily to himself. A shout brought him out of his musing, and his head snapped upward to see Matthieu running tword him.

"Papa!" The boy nearly tackled him to the ground in excitement and Francis couldn't help but laugh as he somehow managed to stay upright.

"Calm down _mon fils_," he laughed, re-adjusting his stance to where he was a bit more comfortable, "I'm not going to disappear."

'_How ironic_', he though bitterly, "How have you and your bear been?"

"Kumataro and I 'ave been good! _Et vous_, Papa? You looked sad for a moment..," the boy mumbled with concern.

'_Funny, I could have sworn he named it Kumajiro..._' Not voicing his thoughts, he cooed at the boy's broken English and huggled him close, causing the boy to twitter with his quiet, adorable laughter. "I am quite well," '_You lair, you're an emotional wreck._' his mind spat at him, which he ignored, "I was looking at the roses." his eyes turned back to the white flowers.

Matthieu looked to the bush, his interest piqued. The bridge of his little nose wrinkled. "_Je ne comprends pas, papa_, it's just white. Zere is nothing exciting about it." Francis tutted and shook his head with a fond smile, "It's not the color that is enticing. Although white reminds me of you, with all of your snow."

Matthieu blushed lightly as Francis continued, "It's the way the petals curve, outward, as if yearning for attention; the way they swirl inward, contradicting it's need for touch by hiding away. It truly is my favorite flower." Matthieu smiled. If it was Francis' favorite flower, than it was his too. A drip of water tapped the top of Francis' head, and he looked upward to get another drop in the nose. The tell-tale flash of lightning skittered across the gray sky, followed by the low rumble of thunder. 'How fitting...' he thought with a sad smile. "Come Matthieu, the rain will only get stronger, let us go inside." The young boy smiled and Francis took the smaller hand in his as they walked back to the cabin.

He was correct. The rain did get stronger, so to speak. After a hot dinner and the small cleanup, he gravely told Matthieu of what had transpired and what had to happen. And true to what he had though earlier, the boy didn't cry, but barley kept said tears from spilling over. He'd begged, pleaded, to be able to stay with Francis, but he had to stay firm; even though he would have given anything to keep the child with him. And finally, after all of the pitiful bargains and heartbreaking looks, he sobbed into Francis' chest, little fists clutching at his shirt. Francis cried a bit as well, hugging the boy tightly to him.

In the end, Francis promised him the day of a life-time when the sun came up, and he lay Matthieu down to bed and then went to his own in the next room. However no matter how hard he tried, the young boy couldn't sleep. How could he? In the next few days he was being sent off to live with a complete stranger, and there was absolutely nothing that could change it. And Francis had looked so sad, even when promising him a day of nothing but joy. He wished he could remove that deep gloom out of his eyes. After all, they could always visit each other, considering how close England and France were. Right?

"_Although white reminds me of you, with all of your snow._" Matthieu's eyes snapped open at the memory. Maybe... "_It truly is my favorite flower._" His eyes lit up in the darkness, purple glimmering with an idea. As soon as Francis was sleeping he could put his plan into action. It took a lot longer for Francis to fall into a fit-full slumber than the thought it would. '_Come on Papa..._' the boy though from his spot near Francis' cracked door. But at around six in the morning, the sun just over the horizon yet not visible due to the clouds, Matthieu donned his coat and trotted out in the light drizzle. '_Now where was that bush...?_'

Around 6:25 Francis stirred awake, the sunlight flittering over his face. Grumbling, the man reluctantly stood and walked to Matthieu's room. He peeked through the door, seeing the lump in the covers. Smiling, he decided to let the boy sleep a little longer as he got breakfast ready. As he went to the kitchen and got everything prepared, he couldn't help but feel slightly off. Normally the boy was up before he was and was already trying to make breakfast before he himself was awake. '_He probably didn't sleep well due to the news_.' he though grimly, '_Goodness knows that I didn't_.'

As the eggs cooked in the skillet, he heard the front door open and close and he immediately went into a parental defense mode. No one ever came out this far, so he never really thought to lock the door, but now he would definitely have to reconsider, as well as making Matthieu do so. A shadow stretched across the floor, and he turned to the door, expecting to defend the small home. The sight that came to his eyes was far worse than any burglar he could have imagined and he gasped in horror.

Standing there was his little Matthieu. That wasn't what shocked him though. The boy was practically soaking wet, and in his hands where three red spattered roses. The red, he immediately realized, wasn't any form of paint or artificial coloring. No, it was the own boy's blood, which dripped down his arms from his hands and onto the floor. Tears rolled down his cheeks and he sniffled, "I-I'm sorry I m-made you cry, p-papa. I-I promise that I won't f-forget you, o-or like England more than you." he whimpered, "J-just don't be sad o-or mad 'nymore. _Je t'aime_"

Abandoning the stove, he ran to Matthieu's side and gently took the crimson roses and placed them on the table before engulfing the boy in a hug. Is that what the boy though? That he was angry with him? "I could never be mad at you _ma petite fleur_." He shook his head, "I care for you far too much." he lightly kissed his forehead and wiped the tears on Matthieu's face away. "_Je t'aime aussi, et je serai toujours_. Now come, lets clean and bandage your hands and get you some dry clothing." "Of course, papa." he mumbled, "But um... the stove?" A look of realization, then horror, flitted across his face as he ran back to the stove, smoke billowing from the pan, "_Merde! La nourriture!_" Matthieu giggled at his father's antics.

And so the day went on, Matthieu's hands were cleaned up and bandaged, they ate, and had a great day of out-door activity. Francis had tried his best to clean the flowers, but is seemed as though they just absorbed it, the whole white bloom taking on the crimson of fresh spilled blood. He noticed too that the flowers never seemed to wilt. The few days he had left with his 'son' they stayed upright and beautiful, as though they were still on the bush. Speaking of the bush, the most peculiar thing had happened. The roses were red. Not the snowy white he was used to, but bright red. It had happened to any bush he came across. Curious.

All to soon, in his opinion, the day came where Matthieu had to leave to England. The day was filled with tears and promising whispers of visits when possible before the boy was taken away from him. After the boat left Francis went back to the Cabin to gather his things. On the table the roses sat, still red and still in full bloom. '... _now that they're red, they really are more alluring_.' he thought to himself. He ended up taking them with him back to France. He placed them in a crystal vase on an end table near his front door. It made him smile everyday, coming home to see, and remember, his little loved one and the love that was given to him in those flowers.

And the flowers, nor the love that he had received, ever wilted.

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**End.**

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Translations:

_Et Vous_ - And You_  
Je ne comprends pas, papa_ - I don't understand, father._  
Ma petite fleur_ - My little Flower_  
Je t'aime aussi, et je serai __ toujours_ - I love you as well, and I always will  
_Merde! La nourriture!_ - Shit! The food!

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**Note** These are taken from google translator, so pardon my french. **

**-pause- I didn't mean to say that. I swear. Puns just slip out D8**

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**Bot: And there you have it!  
I was actually thinking of making it muli-chaptered.**  
**Storys of how Mattie made the roses into a rainbow.**  
**Loosley related stories of his relationship with others  
I also plan on drawing something rose related~  
Ack, I need to stop rambling. Read and review please?**  
**Feed the hungry soon-to-be-collage-freshman!**


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